Part 50 (2/2)

”Wullie--ma Wullie!” he said very gently. ”They've aye bin agin me--and noo you! A man's mither--a man's wife--a man's dog! they're all I've iver had; and noo ain o' they three has turned agin me! Indeed I am alone!”

At that the great dog raised himself, and placing his forepaws on his master's chest tenderly, lest he should hurt him who was already hurt past healing, stood towering above him; while the little man laid his two colds hands on the dog's shoulders.

So they stood, looking at one another, like a man and his love.

At M'Adam's word, Owd Bob looked up, and for the first time saw his master.

He seemed in nowise startled, but trotted over to him. There was nothing fearful in his carriage, no haunting blood-guiltiness in the true gray eyes which never told a lie, which never, dog-like, failed to look you in the face. Yet his tail was low, and, as he stopped at his master's feet, he was quivering. For he, too, knew, and was not unmoved.

For weeks he had tracked the Killer; for weeks he had followed him as he crossed Kenmuir, bound on his b.l.o.o.d.y errands; yet always had lost him on the Marches. Now, at last, he had run him to ground. Yet his heart went out to his enemy in his distress.

”I thowt t'had been yo', lad,” the Master whispered, his hand on the dark head at his knee--”I thowt t'had bin yo'!”

Rooted to the ground, the three watched the scene between M'Adam and his Wull.

In the end the Master was whimpering; Andrew crying; and David turned his back.

At length, silent, they moved away.

”Had I--should I go to him” asked David hoa.r.s.ely, nodding toward his father.

”Nay, nay, lad,” the Master replied. ”Yon's not a matter for a mon's friends.”

So they marched out of the Devil's Bowl, and left those two alone together.

A little later, as they trampled along, James Moore heard little pattering, staggering footsteps behind.

He stopped, and the other two went on.

”Man,” a voice whispered, and a face, white and pitiful, like a mother's pleading for her child, looked into his--”Man, ye'll no tell them a' I'd no like 'em to ken 'twas ma Wullie. Think an 't had bin yer ain dog.”

”You may trust me!” the other answered thickly.

The little man stretched out a palsied hand.

”Gie us yer hand on't. And G-G.o.d bless ye, James Moore!”

So these two shook hands in the moonlight, with none to witness it but the G.o.d who made them.

And that is why the mystery of the Black Killer is yet unsolved in the Daleland. Many have surmised; besides those three only one other knows--knows now which of those two he saw upon a summer night was the guilty, which the innocent. And Postie Jim tells no man.

Chapter x.x.x. THE TAILLESS TYKE AT BAY

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